by A. E. Moorat
Conroy had crossed the room, and was there before either of them were aware that he had moved, the knife in his hand.
There was a couple of moments as McKenzie struggled, tried to bite down on Conroy's hand with teeth that were not there. Then Conroy was extricating his hand from McKenzie's mouth, a torrent of blood in its wake, and he was tossing the severed tongue to the feral children, who used it to begin a game of piggy in the middle.
McKenzie thrashed on the wall, making a strange mewling sound. Conroy looked at Quimby, a dark warning in those eyes-a look that required nothing supplementary to be said.
'I tire of this,' said Conroy darkly. 'We shall find your photogenic drawing. We'll burn down his abode if needs be. Instruct your revenant to feed.'
McKenzie thumped his body against the wall, mute, his mouth foaming blood, eyes wide in terror as he faced his final moments.
Perkins, needing no more encouragement, came running over with the urgency of a man suffering from a severe case of dysentery.
'Make it quick, Perkins,' said Quimby as his manservant streaked past him, 'put the man out of his misery-not that he deserves it.'
'Sir, yes, sir,' said Perkins and began to feed.
And then there was just a ghastly silence, McKenzie unable to voice his agony as Perkins tore his insides from him to eat, while they were still nice and warm-just the way he liked them.
XXXI
'Would you like to take a seat, Your Majesty?' the dwarf croaked, after they had descended the stone steps to a secret area of the Palace, there to be greeted by the Quartermaster's pint-sized assistant, 'and I will tell the Quartermaster that you're here,' at which he bowed, indicating chairs that had been set out along one wall of what looked like an antechamber, and left the room, walking in that distinctive lop-sided gait peculiar to little people.
Maggie Brown, glad of the chance to sit down, picked up her skirts and settled back in a chair, regarding her feet at the hem of her skirts.
'Why, that's about the longest I've ever gone without seeing my toes,' she remarked. 'Do you never miss seeing your feet, ma'am, having them hidden within all that crinoline?'
Melbourne glared at her, correctly guessing that the Queen was in no mood for jocularity; indeed she was not, and as the Prime Minister took a seat beside Maggie Brown, Victoria remained standing, pacing about the small, bare room.
'Why must he keep us waiting?' she asked, testily.
'He is the Quartermaster,' explained Maggie.
'And I am the Queen of England, and the Queen does not like to be kept waiting, especially when her husband currently languishes in the clutches of his arch-enemy. Go and fetch him at once.'
'Ma'am, with the greatest of respect, it might not be the wisest course of action.'
'Why ever not?'
'He's a genius.'
'He's a quartermaster.'
'Ah, no, Your Majesty. He's the Quartermaster. He who forges weapons solely for the Protektorate.'
'That's all he does? There is a smith tasked with forging weapons for but a handful of warriors?'
'Aye, ma'am, affirmative.'
The Queen looked in the direction of the thick curtain that separated the waiting area from the workshop. 'Goodness, do we pay him?' she whispered to Lord Melbourne.
'Most certainly, Your Majesty,' he said, 'handsomely. Or else risk losing him to a foreign power.'
Victoria allowed herself a smile, appearing to relax a little. 'Then God help us if Albert were here,' she said, 'he would think it an example of utmost profligacy-of utmost English profligacy. He didn't know, I take it? But he's usually so knowledgeable about such things.'
'I dare say not, ma'am, no,' replied Maggie Brown, as Melbourne sank a little deeper into his seat, 'The Quartermaster's wages are paid in such a way as to avoid scrutiny.'
'How?'
'Lord Melbourne claims him as an expense.'
'Is this right, Lord M?'
'Yes, Your Majesty.'
'And do you use the privilege of your expenses for any other shadowy financial dealings we should know about?'
'Certainly not, ma'am.'
Lord M's nostrils were flaring so much so as to resemble a hat worn by a wizard, when the dwarf reappeared, standing at the curtain and holding it up so that they might pass through, saying, 'The Quartermaster will see you now.'
The first thing that struck Victoria as they passed into the workroom was the heat; the second, the smell: of oil; the third that there were weapons and armour everywhere. All over the walls and in every corner: dirks, daggers, bows, crossbows, gauntlets, shields, muskets, pistols, warhammers, clubs, maces, hatchets, axes, pikes and rapiers.
Some were what she thought of as being 'traditional' weapons; others...well, she had never seen the like. As with the sword used by poor Hudson, which no doubt had been forged in this very workshop, many were subject to modification, and she found herself both fascinated and repulsed at some of the additions made to the orthodox shape, their express purpose being to inflict as much damage and pain as was possible on those unlucky enough to feel their bite. For a moment Victoria found herself fighting the urge to simply flee-to leave this place so redolent of death and of pain.
But no. She stood her ground, let herself become accustomed to the weaponry. The next sight she was struck by was the Quartermaster, an elderly man, with white hair and a long white beard who wore half-moon spectacles, and who had been sitting behind a workbench crowded with instruments and sections of metal. At his side was what looked like a tailor's dummy, dressed in leather armour.
He now stood, as was the protocol, and the Queen was expecting a nod of the head, such as she was used to receiving when meeting members of the lower orders, and felt herself bridle a little, when instead of addressing her, the Quartermaster instead moved over to Maggie Brown, placing his hands on her shoulders and inclining his head a little so as to peer at her over his spectacles.
'I am so terribly, terribly sorry to hear about Hudson.'
'Thank you, Quartermaster,' replied Brown, 'I will avenge him before I shed my tears for him.'
'A good man,' said the Quartermaster, nodding, 'and oh, what a swordsman. Bested by an Arcadian, I hear.'
'Indeed.'
He sighed. 'They can be tricksy, Arcadians. Footsoldiers, of course-there to do the dirty work for the level one demons. But even so, good fighters.'
'Aye, we'll see,' said Maggie Brown. 'We'll see.'
The Quartermaster looked awkward. 'Did you, um, recover his weapon all right?' he said, with an obvious twinge of discomfort at having to ask.
'Aye, we did.'
He nodded his head, relieved. 'Oh good, jolly good. Not something we want falling into the hands of the enemy.'
'Aye.'
'Now,' and at this he turned his attention to the Queen, 'this is our youngest recruit is it?'
Which, for Victoria, was most assuredly the last straw. The impudence of him! 'In fact,' she snapped, 'I am the Queen, your employer and, it would seem, landlady.'
'Oh?' said the Quartermaster, bemused, 'should we be packing our bags and moving on?'
'No, Quartermaster,' said Melbourne, quick to interject, 'Her Majesty is vexed and merely requires perhaps a little more haste in this enterprise, for Prince Albert remains missing. Isn't that right, ma'am?'
Victoria, furious at having to mollify the man yet also aware of the need to maintain good relations, threw Melbourne a peevish look, but submitted; instead she pointed out an item on the wall.
'What's this?' she asked, indicating at a curved sword.
'That,' the Quartermaster said with a smile, 'is a katana, a sword used by Samurai warriors in Japan.'
'It's extremely beautiful,' she said.
He raised his eyebrows, as though to say, 'But of course.'
'Would you like to try it?' he asked, and before she could reply had moved across and with his index finger taken the sword from the wall, holding it perched on his finger. 'Perfect weight and balance,' he pointed out, befo
re flicking it into the air, catching it and snapping it back, holding it with the scabbard along his arm and the hilt held out for her to take.
She did so, sliding it from the scabbard, catching her breath to see the blade, gleaming.
'Suits you, Your Majesty,' said the Quartermaster, as she stood with it, only just resisting the impulse to try it out-which would no doubt have been a disastrous thing to attempt in the cramped workspace.
'May I keep it?' she asked.
'Well, you can borrow it--'
'Er, Quartermaster,' warned Melbourne, 'there is a limit, man.'
The Quartermaster twinkled. 'Of course you may have it, Your Majesty. The scabbard also. If you'll allow me...'
From the scabbard he unfurled some leather straps and then Victoria was gasping as he came around behind her and proceeded to strap the sheath to her back.
The impudence of the man. To touch the Queen in this way. How dare he...
She caught Maggie Brown's expression, a pained plea to please indulge the Quartermaster, and said nothing.
With the sheath strapped to the Queen's back, the Quartermaster returned to face her, oblivious to the high colour in her cheeks, saying, 'However I am told that you have shown great promise in close-quarter combat.' Here he looked over at Maggie, who nodded enthusiastically, her demeanour that of a proud parent.
'In that case,' said the Quartermaster, 'you will also need weapons for this purpose and I think I might have just the thing.' He walked slowly to his workbench and behind it, placing a hand to his back and wincing as he bent to reach down, saying, 'I've been working on a version of the halbert, cutting the handle down to the size we might ordinarily expect to see on an axe, retaining the hook, but replacing the axe blade with a circular saw-a spinning circular saw.'
'A spinning saw? You're joking,' said Victoria.
He straightened and regarded her over the top of his spectacles. 'I never joke about my work, Your Majesty,' he said, and with that he brought the weapon from out of sight and placed it on the bench.
It was as he had described. The saw, boasting evil-looking curved blades, was at one face; at the other, a longer blade like that of a pick-axe.
'It has within it, a mechanism,' he said, 'made especially for me in Switzerland by a young watchmaker named Antoni Patek.'
He demonstrated with a finger, giving the blade the lightest of prods, at which it began spinning fiercely, with a low ticking sound.
'That's incredible,' said Melbourne.
'Yes,' agreed the Quartermaster. 'Used in battle the saw will begin to spin at an even faster rate, meaning that the weapon's efficiency is increased as it is used.'
He picked up the weapon quickly, dextrously flipping it so that it described a figure of eight, looked at them to see that they were impressed, which they duly were, then handed it to Victoria, indicating the tailor's dummy.
'Your Majesty,' he said, 'would you like to give it a test run?'
Hiding her uncertainty, Victoria took the weapon, holding it like an axe, then stepped to the tailor's dummy and swiped downwards. The blade already spinning faster, then faster as she struck again and then a third time. She stopped. The leather armour slid from the tailor's dummy, split apart. 'Sharp, too, obviously,' said the Quartermaster, taking it from her and replacing it on the tabletop.
'Does it have a companion?' queried Maggie Brown.
'Ah, the melee master speaks,' smiled the Quartermaster, 'why, of course, it does, Maggie Brown, for the close-quarter combatant is best served by a short-handled weapon in both hands, one for bludgeoning and chopping-the blunter of the two instruments; another for more finer, more detailed work, a penetrating weapon such as this...'
Now he brought forth what Victoria saw was a knife, though slightly longer than was usual, and which had been fashioned in the style of a sword. One longer, two-sided blade was complemented by two shorter blades, which curved down over the handle, itself sharpened to a point at its base, so that it might be used to stab backwards as well as forwards.
'Aye,' said Maggie Brown, 'I'd say that looks just the ticket, wouldn't you, Your Majesty?'
Queen Victoria, sword in scabbard, took the spinsaw and shortsword from the bench and held them, weighing them up.
'Yes,' she said, 'we think these will suffice.'
XXXII
From outside came the sound of a carriage coming to a halt and Quimby darted to the library window, pulling aside his gratifyingly weighty drape and peering into the street. Below, Sir Montague Tales, the Whig MP for somewhere or other, was alighting from the carriage, placing his top hat upon his head, turning and addressing his driver, using his cane to emphasise whatever it was he had to say. The carriage departed and Sir Montague turned to face Lord Quimby's abode, then climbed the steps to the front door.
There came the sound of knocking.
'Right,' said Quimby, to Perkins and Egg, 'I shall get the door. You two remain out of sight until you hear me call. Then you, Egg, come to the library and do exactly as we have discussed. Perkins, you be ready with the potion. We need him fresh, gentlemen, is that clear? For that may be the key to controlling this desire for flesh.'
With that he hurried from the library and to the main stairs, unconsciously biting his lip; he was nervous, for their experiments in altering the chemistry of the potion had so far been unsuccessful.
Egg being proof of that.
Leaving the workhouse that day, Quimby had said to Perkins, 'Right, Perkins, there are three issues we must address at once, and they are: firstly, we need to prevent the zombies craving flesh.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Secondly, we need to ensure that revenants will always submit to my will.'
'A difficult one to measure, sir.'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.'
They had walked on.
'What about you, Perkins? Do you submit to my will because you want to, or because as my revenant you're compelled to?'
'I couldn't say, sir.'
'Exactly. Damn and blast it. This is what is so darned difficult about this whole business. It really is so very imprecise. I tried to tell our friend Mr Conroy that it really is a most inexact science, but he wasn't having it, I'm afraid. He seems to think we shall have a legion of obedient revenants all subject to my command and therefore, by extension, his.'
'I must say, sir, I didn't hear you express any doubts you might have had.'
'Well, no, perhaps I didn't. They were certainly uppermost in my mind, but you're quite correct, no, I didn't express them, not in actual words, insofar as saying them...out loud.'
'Perhaps, sir, it might have been wise to disavow him of his false notions?'
'And find ourselves surplus to requirements? Kicked to death by those ghoulish miniature hooligans he keeps at his beck and call? You are strong, Perkins, I know that, but against such numbers...No, the only thing for it is to work on our elixir in order that its efficacy might be improved.'
They had walked on.
'What was the third thing, sir?'
'What third thing?'
'You mentioned that there were three things to which we must attend with the utmost urgency. What is the third?'
Quimby looked left and right, then pulled Perkins into a side alley. 'The third thing,' he said, 'requires us to return to the workhouse...'
Conroy, fortunately, had paid little attention to the disposal of the bodies of McKenzie and Egg-he was moving his centre of operations anyway, he said-directing that they should be left out in the street, there to appear as victims of frost, any trauma to the bodies blamed on vermin. Thus it was no great matter for Quimby and Perkins to return, collect the corpse of Egg, supporting it between them as though Egg were a drunken friend, and bring it to Pembridge Villas.
What Quimby wanted, of course, was the secret the man harboured, and as they laid him on the operations table in the basement he prayed that Egg might retain most or all of his cognitive functions. God, how he wished now that they had been mor
e thorough when conducting these experiments. Egg had been dead-how long was it now?-four hours. That give him two hours more freshness than a prostitute Burke and Hare had brought him once, and aside from some memory issues-which did, at the time, of course, suit Quimby down to the ground-she had been fine. Quite good company, in fact.
So, once safely back at home, they had administered the concoction to Egg and stood back, observing what was now a familiar sight to them: that of the dead returning to life. After many minutes of seeing him cough and splutter and the usual period of adjusting to the sensation of having regained life, Quimby went to Egg.
'It's all right,' he said, 'you're safe. Do you know your name?'
'Yes, sor, my name is Egg, but beyond that I couldn't say, sor.'
'Blast, he's brain damaged!' exclaimed Quimby.
'No, sir,' said Perkins, 'I think it's just his accent, sir, which is of the countryside.'
'Really?' Quimby returned from the gates of despair with the same speed at which he had entered them. 'Just his accent, eh? Is that right, Egg, are you man of the soil?'
'By birth, sor, from the Fens of Lincolnshire.'
'That's in this country, is it?'
'Yes, sir,' confirmed Perkins.
'Excellent. Now...' he leaned in towards Egg, 'what do you know about the Queen?'
Egg screwed his eyes up as though concentrating hard. 'I can't say that I quite recall, sor.'
Neither had he been able to recall since. Privately, Perkins and Quimby wondered if Egg was telling them the whole truth regarding this situation. Perhaps he was withholding the information in the belief that once he had revealed it, they would destroy him.
This was exactly what they intended to do, of course. They had long ago learnt to be ruthless when it came to the disposal of revenants-that debacle in the library had taught them that-and Quimby was often reminding Perkins that there was no room for sentiment. Egg, possibly not as backward as his accent suggested, might have come to the right conclusion. Thus, Perkins and Quimby did their very best to make Egg feel at home; indeed, Perkins had very much taken him under his wing. Why, Quimby almost felt excluded at times.
